jordan

Harlem and Giselle

Harlem Kimmi waits in the foyer with an impatient look up the wide-curved staircase to his aunt's bedroom; he has a perfect view of her closed door. Harlem looks at the grandfather clock across the room noticing three hours passed since the lights upstairs were turned out. The entire house must be asleep.

He adjusts his coat's collar in his reflection from the front window admiring his limpid complexion.

Opening the front door, Harlem takes inventory to not forget a single item, the lantern and tulips, the letter and his packed satchel. He set the shovel against the back of the house earlier this day knowing his aunt never leaves further than the front porch.

He opens the front door with a cautious ease not to draw a squeak. Harlem practiced this move for years, learning every asymmetrical settlement of the antique house.

Harlem steps into the mist of the night, the cloudless sky shines in the silver iridescence of the brilliant countryside stars. This is the exact night he imagined for each longing year, the night he wrote of in his letters to Giselle picturing her face in a moonlit painting of the Renaissance.

Harlem walks to the left of the house from the dilapidated front porch onto the moist grass of the front yard. The tall farm house sits on thirty-two acres of wide open land circling in equal directions. Few trees line the perimeter of the property alongside the fence his great grandfather's father built.

The home remained in the Kimmi family for eight generations, now under the care of his aunt Chelsea, the eldest of his father's siblings. Harlem and his mother moved into the house a year after the untimely deaths of his father and uncle in a duel dispute of inheritance rights, they slain one another on the dirt in the front of the house.

One of the bullets shot, passed through his cousin's left eye. She was buried on her thirteenth birthday in the family cemetery behind the house at the far left corner of the property next to her father and uncle. The family planted a weeping willow tree in the tragedy of her loss; Aunt Chelsea never visited the graves since.

Summer dew glistens on top of Harlem's shoes as he approaches the wine cellar doors, the long handled shovel leans against the house.

Harlem sets the unlit lantern and flowers in the grass and removes a key he snuck from his aunt's armoire out of his trousers pocket. She left the wine cellar locked from inside the house and out never allowing herself, or anyone else, inside. Her husband spent hours reading labels of exotic French wines collected over decades, the real treasure of the Kimmi family.

For its little use the lock and door opens quite smooth. Harlem steps with a calm anxiety down the short wood staircase into the furthest depths of the home. The humid room is not similar to the rest of the house. It is an avoided place not typical of being forgotten.

The stale atmosphere brings a shudder to Harlem's spine as he thinks of the lantern from fear of the black spaces; he must not let the beating of his heart distract him.

He remembers the nights with Giselle sneaking to this cellar and of her preference to Beaujolais over Pinot Noir. Wrapped in a dark sheet the bottle he chose for tonight lays under the far rack in the corner; he took no chances to ruin the occasion.

Harlem takes the wrapped bottle placing it in his satchel along with the corkscrew, makeup brush and powder inside, careful to leave the cellar as to not disturb the quiet of the house above.

With the shovel, lantern, and flowers in hand Harlem walks toward the back of the property. During the passing time he obsesses on the wink Giselle gave him on his fifteenth birthday, from the corner of his aunt's living room she sat surrounded by his mother and cackling aunts.

Harlem was less bashful back then and after this occasion would smirk every time Giselle's eyes met his.

“Your mother means well, Harlem.” Giselle told him at the disdain of time his mother took from theirs.

“She is simple, and simply desires me to grow up without friends, without enjoyment at all.”

“Harlem, I believe you feel that way, but this is an over-reaction.” She held his hand in the kitchen when they were alone.

“Giselle, I do not think we can be so open. Your mother would be appalled, she already hates my father. I imagine what she told you of me.”

“Harlem, don't be so put-off. I got your letter last night, the words are so sweet. You should've woken me, you know, and gone back to the cellar; yesterday was so boring.” She left the kitchen to sit in the backyard alone.

Harlem stands in the spot she sat blanketed, looking at the hand she held; the last warm touch of her skin against his. He left letters at her bed every night, though never opened he replaced each the following night.

They sustained his happiness and affection from his aunt's erratic behavior in the years following his father's death.

The lantern Harlem carries casts a tiny dome of light in the abyss of night fallen across the land. A horned owl atop the high peak of the house watches the faint orange glow flickering far beneath its perch.

Under the reflection of an open skies full moon, Harlem sees the shadowed outlines of the willow tree along the iron gate of his family's cemetery; courage in obsession quickens his pace. The soft hoot of an owl reaches Harlem at the front of the gate. “Quiet! Do you want them to know?” He exclaims in a whisper.

The heavy gate opens with a rusted grind, the mournful arms of the willow sway in a phantom presence. In twenty-two paces forward and twelve to the right Harlem stops and blows out the light of his lantern, he sets it next to the small headstone in front of him and removes the contents of his satchel.

He places the brush and powder in his trousers pocket, unwraps the bottle of wine situating it and the corkscrew in the grass. He kneels over lays the tulips on the headstone and removes a letter leaned against the marble.

“I told you, Giselle, I would wait until you are a woman to take you from this wretched home.” Harlem stands reading the etchings on the stone. Giselle Cori. Beloved daughter of Roger and Chelsea Cori struck tragically from the earth. July 1881 – July 1894.

“Beloved? You had to have your names in her legacy, didn't you?” Harlem spits to his uncles grave in disgust.

He begins to dig into the damp earth at his feet. Harlem thankfully smiles at the effects of Midwestern rainfall.

“This will take less time than I thought, Giselle, my love.” He takes care in his shoveling to not dirty his suit, too much.

A pale blue softens the darkness in the horizon, increasing the annoyance of a distant baby bird's chirp. The tip of the shovel thumps against the pine wood cover of Giselle's casket.

“Giselle, oh Giselle!” Harlem gasps in deep breaths brushing away the remaining layer of dirt with his soiled hands. He pauses for a moment to wait for the correct breath and wraps his fingers to the edge of the casket.

With a slow movement Harlem lifts the lid.

The compressed air inside the casket releases with ghastly stench blowing loose dust and flakes of dried skin in the hole dug; Harlem coughs.

“Where are my manners, I am sorry Giselle.” He pulls the brush and powder from his pocket and cleans Giselle's rotted skull. “I am sorry, again. I did not mean to be rude. I brought the wine and flowers you love.”

Harlem quickly stands stretching for the bottle and corkscrew. He lifts the lower half of the lid to sit next to Giselle's petite frame. “You do not mind, do you? Give me a moment.”

Harlem uncorks the bottle and places it on the pillow next to her skull. “Ugh, I cannot believe I let your hair be styled this way, I know you hate it. That will change, my love.”

Harlem removes a letter from his coat pocket and tucks it under her brittle hands; they slightly crack. “I will let you read it later, Giselle. I have waited so long for today. Would you like some wine?”

Harlem picks up the bottle and pours a large sip through her teeth into her mouth; a dark red stains the pillow beneath her skull. Harlem takes a sip and repositions the bottle. “This dress is my favorite of yours. I picked it out, you know?”

The sky above the hole is fully sunlit with its day's humidity already crawling down upon them. “The sun is up, my love.” Harlem tells her. He nestles at her side unbuttoning her white dress. He opens the front exposing the grey of her ribcage.

Harlem rubs the rigid edge of her decayed hipbone; he breaks into a passionate sweat, kissing her dusty collarbone's foul taste of a near decade's rot. He massages his own thigh closing his eyes with a quivered breath.

“Oh, Giselle,” he whispers.

He can hear the humming of a melody she sang to him years ago. Harlem unbuttons his trousers and positions himself on top of Giselle's skeleton. “I know this will be difficult for you, Giselle, I love you.”

Faint footsteps approach in the cemetery. “Harlem? Harlem, are you…? Oh, my God,” screams the shrill voice of Harlem's mother from above the grave. She falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

As she clutches her breathless chest Harlem kisses Giselle's forehead.

“Happy birthday, my love.”